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New Review: Mahida’s Extra Key to Heaven

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This metaphor-driven play explores the dynamic between America and Islam through the lens of characters with less as well as more in common than any of them may think.

New Review: The River Crosses Rivers: Series A

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While created by women playwrights of color, what's alluring about these plays isn't an obsession with ethnicity.

New Review: The Provenance of Beauty

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A trip through the South Bronx, a part of New York City audiences rarely see. Is gentrification good or not? The author's ambivalence demands that outsiders decide.

New Review: The Retributionists

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Daniel Goldfarb's play turns the tale of anti-German vengefulness in the wake of the Holocaust into a barely believable series of melodramatic occurrences.

New Review: Candide Americana

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Who can resist a Staten Island ferry crash, Sept. 11, Hurricane Katrina, white supremacists, and E. coli?

New Review: Remission

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An inventive if overlong take on schizophrenia told by a schizophrenic as if experiencing connected schizophrenic episodes.

On the Paradoxical, Enigmatic, Exhausted Alexis Soloski

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If a critic has been unable to find much to one's liking in 2,000 shows, is it time to do something else?

New Review: Wildflower

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It's challenging to identify true beauty among so many weeds.

New Review: The Boychick Affair

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There are leggy hip-hop dancers swiveling their hips by the bima, and enough rap to make the Torah sound gangsta.

On the Dangers of Extremism — In Theater Criticism

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As if Frank Lloyd Wright designed the Unity Temple in 1904 and returned in 1954 to add a new wing?

I Am Critic, Hear Me Roar, My Brain Is Too Big...

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While the critic does get to say, crudely speaking, "this is good, this is bad," it is unquestionably the critic's responsibility to explain why.

Another Problem with Theatre Criticism II

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Martin Denton has a great post today on the reasons why theatre critics do what they do. While we're friends and colleagues, Martin wouldn't...
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Herman Cain (and Republicans Unable)

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And then there was Jerry Falwell, Jr., with his open pants, evangelical FUPA and his hands veering into prime side-boob territory with -- hey, doesn't she have a name?